It is the eighteenth day of Spring and 70 degrees. There are 0 turns, 3 months and 12 days until the 12th pass.

Where

Lower Caverns, Southern Weyr

Lower CavernsAs straightforward as can be, the hallowed halls of Southern's innards are blessed with a prolific cultivation of wild glows, tended in a way to illuminate the valuted arches with warm light. The halls themselves are a mix of rough-hewn wall and carefully-carved architecture, stunning in contrast and beauty. All the passageways are well-kept, here, though certain paths show heavier wear: the corridors terminating in the baths, the latrines, and the main thoroughfare that moves through to the Living Caverns beyond.

Come evening and folk have dispersed to tasks or recreation, depending upon their daily schedules. For Cerise, whose days have lately consisted of cheerleadering her dragon through physical therapy or rolling bandages in the infirmary, this has led to an excess of time. And, when one is hurting, either physically or psychically, they tend to attempt to deaden that time. In the greenrider's case, this has led to a strong interest in equally strong drink, and a weaker attempt to balance out the effects of alcohol through a routine that pretends everything is okay. To wit: bathing in the evening. Where others might be heading to a late supper, or venturing off for late sweeps or early sleep, Cerise is just stepping out of the baths. An Oldtimer who attempts to appease some of the Nowtimer sensibilities, she's made an effort to cover up following her dunk. Unfortunately, this means she's wearing a summer-weight bath sheet of linen. Linen which, when wet, tends to go a little translucent. So, the greenrider is a vision in pink and white, with stringy curls loose on her shoulders as she sets off through the inner caverns, leaving a string of wet footprints behind her.

Interestingly enough, it's a Nowtimer she runs into. Coming from wherever it was he was, with a long-legged stride he eats up the tunnel, his head down. It's the sense of someone else in the relative dark with him, despite the glows, and not the sight of Cerise at first. But when he does look up, if he appreciates at all her efforts at modesty for his sake and the sake of the others like him, it's lost in the severe stare he gives her. It isn't that he looks mean, he just looks… not nice. She'll find him just there, in front of her, paused as if to see where she's going. He doesn't say anything. This should be noted.

Of course it's a Nowtimer. It would have to be; Cerise has yet to run into an Oldtimer when she's treading the line between modest and im-. There is enough bath sheet that she can slap one end up over her shoulder like a toga, and she's in the act of doing this when she realizes the obstacle in her path. Gradually, red-rimmed eyes travel up from the floor, along legs and torso and shoulders and finally to the gentleman's face. Arriving there, one thick, feathery eyebrow skews up, the other goes rumpled and so he's treated to a look that could best be described as dubious. "…oy." That's pure Bitra, condensed into one syllable. And, when it fails to have the miraculous effect of making B'ruka disappear, she cocks her head and adds, "Make a better door than a window, aye?"

She'll have the cold grey-blue of his eyes when she lifts hers, and when he sees their red-rimmed state his narrow. Sadly that single utterance doesn't banish him and he lingers to be just that: an obstacle in her path. B'ruka gives her something like what she gave him, a slow once over that is all critical. When he finally speaks his voice comes out a low growl. "Exactly how drunk are you, girl." Girl. Not 'weyrling'. Not even 'greenrider'. No, she's 'girl', as in the girl in the tunnel who's almost naked.

"…wait." Cerise lifts a finger- her other hand thankfully engaged in pinning the "toga" to her shoulder to prevent slippage- and leans forward a bit. Her purpose, scrying whatever knot might decorate his shoulder in the relative gloom of that section of passageway. Finding nothing, she straightens up with the sort of smooth ease that speaks of composure and non-drunkenness- a mistaken impression given the waft of alcohol fumes that come from her when she opens her mouth again. "Not nearly drunk enough for that sort've look to have the right effect, I'm thinking. It's a good try though, don't get me wrong. You might give it another go tomorrow, aye?"

When she leans in he pulls his mouth down, clearly finding nothing appealing there. Still, he doesn't lean away. And then… Fumes. Yes. So that's why he narrows his eyes at her again; in disgust, and also maybe because they're watering. They drift upward in a slow gaze up at the ceiling when she says what she says, as if he is completely out of patience. His reply, "If I wanted to fuck some floozy in a tunnel I doubt I'd have much trouble." Which is just about as charming. "I wish I could say I'm surprised to find someone like… you. Here."

"You'd probably not be surprised to hear I get that a lot, mm? And I'm guessing it won't help to know I'm more greenrider than floozy since to your lot, they tend to be one'n the same. But…" Cerise tucks her arms across her midriff, hands hooked under each elbow. It's a pose that draws the linen snug across the chest region, shading white to pink. Her smile is distinctly crooked. "For all your eye-rollin', fella, I'm not seeing you moving out've my way so I can go be drunk 'n whorish somewhere else, aye? Gotta schedule to keep here, y'know, those dicks aren't gonna suck themselves."

"Right on all counts," B'ruka replies, flatly agreeing without any humor with all of the above statements, it's pretty much a strikethrough on all of it actually. The look he gives her to go with that complete shoot-down of all attempts at humor is, dingding, cold. Still, he does look down at the parts of her that have been made… clear, and if only he would gulp or lick his lips, something to show something… human. But no. He only clenches his jaw and takes one silent step that pulls him out of her path and off to one side. Still, he stares.

And yet, in spite of having the way cleared, Cerise doesn't move on. She's paused, affecting puzzlement in the form of pursed lips and beetled brows as she looks the man over. "Y'know, you're reminding me of someone here but I just…can't…put my finger on it…" And she's trying! A couple of the fingers in question tap against her forearm while she considers the matter. Thinking, thinking, thinking…shivering. It might be pleasantly warm in Southern but she's standing in a stone corridor in the middle of a mountain, still in the middle of trying to dry off post-bath. This leads to goosebumps, rather than brainflashes. "Thankee sir, you won't regret it." And why won't he regret it? Because she has a gymnast's rump and legs, the former of which she is just drunk enough to pat as she sways by the bronzerider. Enjooooy.

All she gets is a thick eyebrow lifted up in return for her staring at him for a change. B'ruka doesn't say a thing. When she shivers his eyes narrow again, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. Is that a smile? A cruel smile? Doesn't matter, she's leaving. But not without that last word, and maybe-lewd gesture; his expression darkens. Behind her, since she's allowed to go on her way, he only says, "Doubtful." And then he's on his way, which must have been to the baths because what else could there be in this tunnel, for someone like him, the way he came from?